Reflections of a day

What do you call the moments of the day, remembered in a jumble, deep into evening when the daylight has long since passed?

This morning brought dry, bitter cold and the palest of January light.

In the park, the dogs and I had barely come down the steps and moved down the path when a crashing sound stopped us, at least two of us with ears up. We turned and on the slope above us, two deer, galloping full speed, flashed by, followed by a small, golden streak, barking.

I expected shortly to hear horns honking, as they were headed toward traffic, but as we continued on, the only sound was a whistle for a dog, and the next sigh the golden streak, in the form of a running boxer, rushing back past us into the park.

We were left with the hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling on a tree trunk and icy water rippling over stones in the creek. We finished our walk uneventfully, the memory of the chase immediately replaced in the dogs' minds by the next fascinating smell.

I went to the hospital in the early afternoon to visit Carl, who now has a very talkative roommate. On his cell phone. With the nurses. About things you just would rather not hear about, as they are unpleasant daily realities in the hospital. I won't say thanks for sharing.

After work, I drove back to visit again. Heading in to Oakland on the Boulevard of the Allies, I saw the moon, low and huge in the evening sky, veiled by cloud drift. At the hospital, I headed to the top floor of the garage, hoping to get a picture, but the skyline obscured it. By the time I left, the risen moon had lost its near-to-the-horizon majesty.

Now, at midnight, it lights the dark, turning the snow in the backyard to a pale silver gray, reflecting what's left of the day.

The painting is by artist Edward Bannister, a black American who was born in Boston and died in 1901.

Remember me

When I leave this planet, there will be no tombstone, no mausoleum, no endowed chair, no charity to remind the living of my time here.

The best I hope for is to have been (and selfish younger me would never have imagined this) kind, generous, patient, civil and possessed of a real good sense of humor (got it!). And that those qualities made life better for others around me. Because I think the best we have to offer others is the best that's in us, not for the reward of heaven, or reincarnation, or at the lowest level, avoiding hell, but because we can in the here and now.

There's a scene in "Schindler's List" in which Ralph Fiennes' character, the odious concentration camp commander, is being talked out of not shooting a young boy, an inmate , because he has the power not to. He seems to buy the argument, then kills the boy anyway. That's the seduction of power and it's addiction. That killing may have given the commander a fix, but it only left him wanting more of the same hideous drug.

The better addiction is finding the place that lets you set aside your own immediate needs and face the world not as one against many, but as part of a group of souls made of the same stuff as you. So when you are in a hurry, easier to smile and say excuse me. Or to let another go ahead. Doesn't mean you let yourself be taken advantage of, just that in the daily bustle, you see the larger picture of your journey.

This all seems very nicey-nicey from Miss Prickly here.

(Brief pause here for viewing of Andrea Martin on YouTube. No, I am not linking. Open a new browser window and find it. Hmm hmm hmm. Back? OK, good!)

One reason I am thinking about this is how often older people unload about their aches, pains, ills, etc., in response to a simple "How are you?"

Another is: I've been told a few too many times lately how tired I look. By strangers. Why? Such a comment serves no purpose, except to make me want to run to the restroom and see how dark the bags are under my eyes. Thanks!

It's like a stranger telling you to "Smile!" Why? So stranger can feel good?

Of course strangers don't know my husband is in the hospital and that I am worried and stretching myself with visits and trying to figure out his care. Still. Butt out!

I resolve never to tell another that he or she looks tired, and never to complain to another about my aches and pains.

When someone says "How are you?" the proper response is "I'm good! Thanks!"

Snowflakes on snowflakes

Since Dec. 28, snow has fallen.

Traffic slows, newscasts get frantic and life goes on.

The dogs love the snow; the salt they hate. I take them out in the evening after the plows have been by and in no time, one paw after another is daintily lifted up and held, awaiting a soothing rub to dispatch the stinging salt. I have decided to call these moments of need "poor paws."

Needless to say, our walks are short. Yet life retains its rhythm. I say hello to neighbors, even on those brief walks, who are shoveling snow or taking their own dogs out for a break. The owl hoots at night and I wonder if he is lonesome. The flakes continue to fall, silently and beautifully, and enthralling against the dark sky. The clocks tick, the alarm waits, and the days grow longer, if only by seconds.

And my husband is another day closer to coming home.